


The Small Hours

by SongAboutExiles



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Grief/Mourning, Lost Love, M/M, Mid-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongAboutExiles/pseuds/SongAboutExiles
Summary: We know what Quentin asked Eliot after A Life in the Day. But that wasn't the end of it.Eliot and Quentin spend long, lonely nights drinking and pretending to research. Then one night, the wolves came to the door.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	The Small Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note. In my headcanon, Quentin/Arielle/Eliot were a poly triad, and after Eliot told Arielle about his lost daughter, she was heartbroken and wanted to give him a child. It ended in tragedy. This story isn't a fix-it, it isn't happy.

For Eliot, it was always sense memories that penetrated his armor and pierced him through the heart. The heft of a fussy toddler on his hip, the smell of Quentin's hair in the sunshine, the sound of Arielle singing in the garden. The reek of blood when she died, the cold, blue skin of his own second-born (and second lost) daughter. 

Anything could set him off, really. A certain awkward smile would bring back the sensation of Quentin kissing him, like a peck from a skittish bird that grows to love gentle hands and soft mouths. 

It was a hard way to live. While his memories were incredibly vivid, it was a fresh kind of hell every time they came back to him. He blamed his own strange brain chemistry, but, given his current position, he knew better. Eliot tortured himself - it was the only way he could be punished. 

He and Quentin always seemed to end up right where they were, in the delicate, liminal time when most of the castle was asleep. From their spot on the floor in front of the sofa in Eliot's sitting room, if they were very quiet, they could hear the graveyard shift of the castle at work. Cooks in the kitchens, guards on patrol. 

And the two of them, assuredly drunk, possibly stoned and definitely not talking about it.

Tonight, they were surrounded by haphazard stacks of books they were using for research and empty wine bottles they were using to get shit-faced. They were sitting close, because of course they were, and the sleepier Q got, the heavier his head grew on Eliot's shoulder.

Everything in this room was so, so very fragile. Eliot scarcely dared to breathe, but when he did he breathed in the too-familiar scent of Quentin's hair. Still smelled like sunlight, even if it could do with a wash. So could his, actually. It was hard to keep up with personal hygiene while running around multiple timelines and worlds trying to find keys in quests to save the fucking world. Some more.

It didn't matter. Quentin could be a grungy mess and Eliot still wouldn't jostle him back to full consciousness. His sleepy head felt so right, and a white-hot ball of shame and self-loathing, familiar as the touch of Quentin's hand once was, slithered deep in his guts like a coiled serpent. Along with the snake came its invariable companion: regret. 

From far away, he could hear the guard captain shouting at two men who'd fallen asleep on duty. It was just loud enough to startle Quentin closer to wakefulness, and he turned his head toward Eliot's face, alcohol and Hoberman's excellent weed making his pretty eyes muzzy and unfocused. 

"It's not my turn," he murmured, matter-of-factly lifting up Eliot's arm and putting it around his shoulder. "Maybe he'll go back to sleep." 

Eliot's heart broke at that moment, with those few sleepy, confused words. His arm tightened around thin shoulders, and he brought up his other arm to cross over Quentin's narrow chest in a proper hug.

It wasn't like it was a big deal. They did this all the time.

After a few more minutes, Quentin blinked owlishly up at Eliot, finally coming around to the point where he could pass out on Eliot's sofa in peace. Eliot was gentle as he backed off the embrace, gave Quentin some unasked for space. 

Tonight, this morning, this oddly balanced time in-between...Quentin wasn't having it. The hush already blanketing the room deepened as Eliot watched Quentin move in, lean up. There was going to be a kiss, and he wasn't strong enough to stop it. He should stop it. He should spare Quentin this, at least. 

Instead, Eliot leaned in and met Quentin halfway, their lips brushing softly together like they both knew very well how fragile the night was, how intricately nuanced, how every lever and dial had to be set just so for this to happen. 

Quentin's mouth was so sweet it made Eliot's teeth ache, and he brought up one of his big hands to cup the side of his face. That touch must have conveyed permission (and maybe that was Eliot's purpose all along - he wasn't telling), because Q made a humming noise and kissed a little harder. There were no little pecks now because Quentin apparently knew exactly what he wanted.

Eliot knew he should stop, should remind Q again that this couldn't work, wouldn't work. His own cowardice opened his mouth, but Q just pressed his tongue inside before any damning words came out. He shouldn't have forgotten what an utter brat Quentin Coldwater could be, especially where sex (not that they were heading there, god no) was concerned.

//yesyesdon'tstophardermorepleaseEl//

That bullshit about how Quentin wouldn't fuck him if given the choice? It was just that: bullshit. Eliot knew exactly how good they were together, even when Arielle was alive, and they were all one big bittersweet family. Even when he had 'options.' 

Quentin was gathering himself to move while still attached to Eliot at the mouth. God, Eliot thought, he's going for my lap, and then it'll be all over. He had a ridiculous weakness for lapfuls of Quentin. It was time to stop, and swear one more time that it wouldn't ever happen again. 

"Q...shhh." Eliot pulled back from the kiss, stroking his thumb along Quentin's cheekbone. _Coward._ In all his short-long life, Eliot hadn't fallen in love, except once. It would seem that once was all it took for him. All his heart could stand. 

And, if he relented, the day that Quentin looked back at him with eyes full of pain he'd put there, he would die. He would hurt Q, too. It was a matter of time, because he was fucking clueless about how normal things even worked. Then, he'd lose Quentin forever. No friend, no lover. Nothing but a hole where he used to be.

"Why do you lie to me?" Quentin asked quietly, his face still held in Eliot's grasp. 

"What?" Eliot pulled his hand back slowly, feeling like an animal in a trap. He'd just blundered his way into The Fucking Talk, which was not, sadly, a talk about fucking. Except it was, in a way.

"You said you didn't want me, but you act like you do." Quentin looked lost and lonely, like some warrior trudging home after a horrendous battle. There were circles under his eyes and a deep weariness in his voice. "That's a lie," he added, as if he thought that Eliot needed education on the topic of telling lies from truth. 

"Q, I...know you. I know us. I know how fucking complicated this world is. Our world, the one we shared, that was simple." It sounded like bullshit, even to him. 

"That world wasn't complicated? Have you forgotten what happened to her? To them? Have you forgotten telling Teddy his mother was never coming back?" Quentin was talking around a hard lump in his throat. Eliot knew because he had one of his own.

"How could I forget? Quentin, that was the second daughter I've lost. My children die." Maybe they died in punishment for his many sins. Maybe he didn't deserve them. Maybe he'd be able to figure that out if he'd ever let himself grieve them. 

"Then how can you say it was simple?" Quentin asked softly. "But we survived it all. I loved you until the day I put you in the ground. So why am I even having this conversation?"

"Because I don't want to lose you." Eliot wouldn't tell the whole truth, the truth about his cowardice, but he didn't want to lie to Quentin either. "If we tried this, I would fail. You would get hurt."

"You already hurt me. I know you didn't mean to, but you did." Quentin's tone wasn't accusatory, but Eliot still felt it like a punch to the gut. 

"I'm protecting you. Can we please just leave it at that?" Eliot pleaded. He hadn't been prepared for a ruthless Quentin Coldwater, but here he was, two feet from him in the most dangerous time of the night.

"I don't want to leave it at that." It was a flat declaration. Quentin pulled himself up slowly from the floor to the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked down at Eliot with his heart in his eyes.

"Q, I'm not trying to be mean, but what if Alice comes and wants you back?" He may have loved Quentin longer, but she certainly loved him too. In her way.

Quentin took a long moment to answer. So long, in fact, that he didn't really have to answer at all. "That won't happen. And I wouldn't cheat on you."

"You think that's what I'm worried about? It's your heart, not your dick, Q." 'That won't happen' was the answer he was dreading the most. 

"You could always let me worry about my heart, El." Quentin reached down to touch Eliot's messy curls, his fingers catching along the way.

"I can't not worry. It would kill me to lose you." Here he was, hinting at his cowardice after all. His intense sense of self-preservation that was crippling him. 

Quentin nodded slowly and wiped at his eyes. It was so dim that Eliot couldn't tell if those eyes were tired or full of tears. He knew which one it was for him.

"Okay," Quentin said simply. 

"Okay?" Eliot repeated, looking up at him like he'd just been thrown a lifeline that maybe he didn't want.

"You've made yourself clear. I've tried twice. I won't try again." Quentin stood shakily. "There's this really geeky show I used to watch, and there's a bit about the hour between three and four at night. About how that's when the wolf comes. The wolf and I are now on a first name basis." 

He picked up his shoes and didn't bother putting them on. "Good night, Eliot."

Eliot couldn't leave it at that. He unfolded himself upright and faced Quentin. "I couldn't keep your wolves at bay," he whispered.

"Just like I can't keep yours at bay, no matter how hard I wish I could," Quentin whispered back at him. Even whispers were loud in this hush. 

Eliot nodded slowly, his voice thick as he answered. "Good night, Quentin."

When the door closed behind him, Eliot sat down heavily and stared at nothing, wolves howling in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were curious, the show Q was referring to was Babylon 5, and the character who talked about the Hour of the Wolf was Ivanova.


End file.
